


A Prayer for St. Stephen

by glasgow_blue



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-05
Updated: 2004-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:42:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgow_blue/pseuds/glasgow_blue





	

This may or may not be finished. But it is definitely for [](http://traveller.livejournal.com/profile)[**traveller**](http://traveller.livejournal.com/).

380 words, written on paper stained with saddle soap and water.  
Viggo and Dom.

It is absolutely useless to try to talk to Viggo when he is cleaning tack. Dom learned this the hard way on set and has long since given up. Instead, he pours tea and watches; one thigh tucked against his chest, chin resting on his knee.

There are pieces of leather laid out on the table, a puzzle of buckles and straps. Some assembly required. At first, Dom took them to be haphazard, but now he sees the pattern. Viggo sets them down in rows and columns like a priestess laying a tarot card reading and, from the right angle, it's clear that they are placed as they would be on a horse’s head.

This is not a chore. It's a meditation. A prayer. Viggo might as well be sitting zazen in a temple in Japan or doing asanas in the forest. There is a bucket of holy water at his right elbow and a tub of sacred oil at the left and each bit of leather is tended to with meticulous reverence.

_Three swipes of the sponge in the oil--which is a homebrew of glycerin soap and other things, heated on the stove in one of Dom’s sauce pans and cooled to a solid at room temperature--all the better to clean with, Dominic. Nevermind the pot. Circular motions on the leather--never back and forth and never, ever against the grain. Buffed with a soft, spotlessly white towel until glossy and sleek. The sponge goes back to the bucket for rinsing. The throat latch to its rightful place. Water and leather must never meet, for they are mortal enemies._

There are quicker, more modern methods of doing this, Dom is sure. He's seen ads for spray cleaners and one-step miracles in the magazines on the back of Viggo's toilet. Pop-up disposable wipes. Creams, lotions, special cloths.

Viggo's towel has the crest of a Paris hotel in one corner and Dom knows that the theft was deliberate. Only the finest quality in everything is tolerated when his tack is concerned. He looks at Viggo, takes in the scruff, the ink-stained skin, and the torn t-shirt. Teeth on a lower lip, fingers moving with tender purpose.

The bridle is pristine. The bit shines. Viggo has no use for mirrors.  



End file.
